


and it went unsaid

by ballad



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M, Wedding Night, attolia's pov, shortfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballad/pseuds/ballad
Summary: Queen Irene of Attolia marries the Eddisian court’s royal thief on a warm day.
Relationships: Attolia | Irene/Eugenides
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31





	and it went unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> “What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.” — Jack Gilbert, from the poem _the Forgotten Dialect of the Heart._

Queen Irene of Attolia marries the Eddisian court’s royal thief on a warm day. Celebrations take up most of it; it is very late when both of them retire away that night—her to her chambers, and him _ostensibly_ to his chambers, but in truth slipping into her room hours past midnight, with shadow-soft footsteps and a small smile he does not bother to hide.

Eugenides, she knows, is a kind person. He could, she knows, be a kind king, a great king. But she does not know what she has done to him, for them both to be here. All she knows is some strange, old guilt. Here is a boy who stole away to watch her dance in an orange grove, and saw something in her that he would be happier now not having seen. Here is a man she almost killed. Here is a kind, good person who loves her, and seals his own misery in stone by marrying her.

_I love you._

_Do you believe me?_

_I believe you._

And here he is now, approaching her as she sits and combs her hair. He is already getting better at reading her. Now, he takes the comb, begins to comb her hair instead, and asks, “What is the matter?”

And Irene, gods save her, allows herself honesty, well aware of how much more often she does not. “The matter does not, I think, matter. It is only — ”

“Only?”

Irene wonders what word can she use. At last, she says, “Only old pains. Old scars.”

He says nothing, quietly continuing his combing, instead.

She closes her eyes. “We are married now. It would be—well—if we did not lie to each other.”

“Do you think I’d lie to you?”

She sighs. “Yes. And no. Not about anything important. Perhaps for your own humour, you might.”

He smiles at her. A mischievous expression. “How terrible of me.”

She allows herself to scoff. She feels jittery, chilled, all of a sudden. She had never thought she would marry while alive, and now here they both are, in this quiet, dim room.And outside this quiet, away in the city proper, there are people celebrating this marriage, and she knows most of them will see it as a joke, a sham.

Eugenides has always deserved better.

He is still looking at her, and there is something different about his expression now—he looks at her with that warm sort of cleverness he has. And then, in a blink, that knowing, understanding look disappears, and he says, grandly, “I have an idea.”

“Do tell,” she dryly says.

“I will tell you,” he takes her hand, earnestly, “ _exactly_ what I am feeling and thinking right now, if you will do the same.”

She nods. “Then you will go first, I presume?”

Instead of letting go of her hand, like she expects, he—holds it to his chest. Attolia feels herself go very still.

“I’m afraid,” he says, quieter, and something like a stone seems to make itself felt in her chest. “But I’m—it doesn’t make sense to say, but I’m happy, too. I love you. And I know you aren’t telling me everything. But,” and here, he falters, and Attolia, unthinking, curls her fingers into holding the fabric of his shirt, holding him closer. He tries again, “But I wish you weren’t so worried. I wish there was something I could… could do, could say.”

And oh, there are many things Attolia could say to that, but few seem worthwhile, here, now. So she kisses him, instead, and in the quiet, he kisses her back.

And later, he will grumble, and tell her she never kept her end of the deal, and she will allow herself a rare laugh, and the smile it will result in will be worth it.

For now, Attolia kisses him, and thinks of nothing but that flicker of amber-gold, soil-rich comfort that has finally, after this long day, made itself felt to her.

**Author's Note:**

> comments welcome. my tumblr is @sheherazade.


End file.
